Jasper
The quiet that settled in after everyone left was the good kind—warm and a little spent.
Cara stood behind the counter with one hand resting against the worn wood, fingers spread slightly, like she was grounding herself.
She looked at the room the way you look at something you’ve been working toward for a long time, in disbelief, as if she was still catching up to the fact that it had actually happened.
I let her have that for a moment. Then I stepped closer and reached for a stack of saucers she hadn’t gotten to yet and misjudged the distance between us by about an inch. My forearm brushed hers, and I felt it register all the way up my arm in a way that had nothing incidental about it.
She went very still for a half-second. I did too.
Up close like this, in the candlelight, I could see the length of her lashes behind her glasses, the small crease at the corner of her mouth from smiling all evening, the faint scent of something warm that was her and vanilla and old books, and I had to make a deliberate choice to set the saucers down beside the sink and take a half-step back and give her room, because the alternative was staying exactly where I was and I didn’t think either of us was ready for that.
She glanced up, color high in her cheeks. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.” I kept my voice easy. “But I’m here, so...”
She looked at me for a second with an expression I couldn’t fully read. Then she shifted slightly, making space without making it a thing. “Okay,” she said quietly. “Thank you.”
I went back to the saucers and said nothing, and the silence between us settled into something that felt less like absence and more like something waiting to be said.
We worked like that for a few minutes, quiet and in step.
I rinsed glasses and stacked them, wiped down the stretch of counter where someone had left a ring from a teacup.
She moved through the room behind me, straightening displays, aligning stacks, resetting things to their proper order with the focused ease of someone who knew every inch of the place.
The candlelight caught her face as she moved between the tables—the soft amber of it warm against her dress, her hair a little looser than it had been at the start of the evening. I noticed it more than I meant to.
She caught me looking once and raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“You were staring.”
“I was observing. There’s a difference.”
She set a notebook down on the nearest table. “Is there?”
“Staring is rude,” I said. “Observing is thoughtful. Completely different thing.”
Her mouth curved. She turned back to the shelf, but I caught the edge of the smile she was trying to contain, and something settled in my chest, easy and uncomplicated.
I dried off the last of the glasses and leaned back against the counter, looking at the room.
The shop had come back to itself—still warm, still good, but quieter now, more ordinary.
All those people, all that noise and laughter, and the energy of a room full of people working through a puzzle together, and now just this.
The flameless candles. The lavender. The scattered evidence of an evening that had gone exactly the way she’d hoped it would.
“You did good tonight,” I said.
She looked up from the shelf.
“Seriously.” I crossed my arms loosely. “I had no idea I’d enjoy something like this as much as I did. Didn’t figure out who did it until the last clue.” I paused. “I had a theory about the sister.”
She pressed her lips together. “Everyone had a theory about the sister.”
“Because you wrote her to be suspicious.”
“I wrote everyone to be suspicious. That’s the point.”
“You wrote her to be especially suspicious.” I tilted my head slightly. “That was a deliberate move.”
She looked at me, trying very hard not to be pleased with herself and failing in a way I found entirely too adorable. “Maybe,” she said.
“Good move,” I said. “Just wanted you to know I noticed.”
“Noted.” She turned back to the shelf, and I watched her reach up to straighten the top row, her fingers trailing briefly over the spines before she got to the one she was after.
The small, satisfied sound she made when it slid into place was completely unconscious.
I was fairly certain she didn’t know she’d made it.
I turned back to the counter and wiped down a spot that was already clean, giving myself something to do with my hands.
I’d been turning something over for the last half hour—since before the evening ended, if I was honest. Since the moment I’d looked up from the table and saw where Eric was standing, I understood in about half a second what was happening.
I’d been two years ahead of him and Cara at Sweetbriar High School, which meant I hadn’t paid much attention to him then.
He’d existed at the edges of things—present, unremarkable, the kind of person who was easy to overlook.
I was trying now to remember if there had been anything there, any version of tonight I should’ve been able to predict, and I kept coming up empty.
I hadn’t been watching him then. I didn’t like that I hadn’t been watching.
“Eric,” I said, keeping my voice easy. “I remember him from school.” I set the cloth down and looked at her. “Is he always like that with you?”
Cara went still for just a moment—not long, barely a breath—then set down the book in her hand and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. The small delay told me more than the answer probably would. “He’s persistent,” she finally admitted.
“That’s one word for it.”
Her mouth twitched. “I’ve got it handled.”
“I know you do.” I meant that. She’d kept the room together through the whole thing, kept her voice even, hadn’t let a single person in that shop feel the tension she was managing underneath it all.
She’d been composed in a way that probably looked effortless to everyone who hadn’t been paying close attention.
“You handled yourself tonight. I just—” I stopped, chose my words.
“I didn’t love the way he grabbed your wrist.”
She was quiet for a second. Her gaze dropped briefly to where his hand had been and came back up. “That was—” She paused. “That was more than usual.”
I kept my expression neutral. “Has it been going on for a long time?”
“Back in high school, then recently after his divorce.” She said it lightly, as if it were a minor inconvenience, as if it were something she’d simply gotten used to over time and filed under things she managed.
That lightness was the part that bothered me most. “It’s fine, Jasper.
I know how to handle him. He’s harmless. ”
That word didn’t sit right at all. I knew she was downplaying how she felt. Harmless.
I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to stay where I was instead of closing the space between us without thinking. “Can I look?” I asked after a beat, keeping my voice softer now. “Just to make sure he didn’t hurt you.”
Her eyes stayed on mine a second too long, like she was feeling the question rather than just hearing it. I could see the moment she decided she didn’t need to move away from me.
Then she nodded. “Okay.”
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” I added, quieter still.
“I will,” she said.
She lifted her wrist slightly toward me.
I stepped in carefully, aware of every inch of space I crossed, aware of her in a way I couldn’t quite dial down. I didn’t take her wrist at first, just hovered for a second, letting her choose, then slid my hand underneath hers, light and steady, enough to support but not hold.
The moment I touched her, something in my focus narrowed.
Her skin was warm. Softer than I expected. I kept my grip careful, controlled, but I could feel how immediately aware she was of it too, the stillness that settled into her shoulders, the way her breath changed just slightly.
I turned her wrist just enough to look, slow and deliberate, making sure there was nothing there. No mark, not yet anyway. No pressure left behind.
Still, I didn’t let go straight away.
Her pulse moved under my thumb, quick and steady, and something in me shifted at the feel of it. Even more so when she didn’t pull away.
Then I eased my hand back, carefully, breaking contact before the moment could slide into something else.
“Okay,” I said quietly, my voice rougher than before. “You’re right. No damage.”
But I stayed close for half a second longer, just long enough to feel the space between us again once I stepped back.
I held her gaze for a moment. “If it gets worse—if he gives you any real trouble—you’ll tell me.”
She looked at me for a long moment, something moving through her expression that I couldn’t fully read. Then, quietly, “Okay.”
“Good,” I said. “I’ll get going. Thanks for a great evening.”
“Okay. Thank you for helping me clean up.” She held my gaze for one more second, then looked down at the counter and straightened a stack of coasters that didn’t need straightening. The quiet stretched between us, not uncomfortable—just full of things that didn’t need to be said yet.
I moved toward the door and pushed it open, the night air slipping in. “Text me if anything feels off,” I said, glancing back at her.
Her brows lifted slightly. “I will.”
She rinsed the last mug and set it on the drying rack, and the shop was quiet around us, just the two of us and the soft glow of the shelf lights and the pleasant wreckage of a good evening.
She dried her hands on the small towel by the sink and then stood there for a second, like she was deciding something.
“Do you want a cup of tea?” she said. “Before you go.”
She said it to the counter rather than to me, which told me it had cost her something to say it. I looked at the side of her face—the line of her jaw, the way she was very carefully not making it a big thing—and felt something settle in my chest that had no interest in going anywhere.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’d like that.”